


For the Promise of a Better Place

by YourFadedGlory (HisNameWasAce)



Series: Somebody To Die For [3]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, OMC - Freeform, The Russian Mafia AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-09-12 07:57:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9063259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HisNameWasAce/pseuds/YourFadedGlory
Summary: Faking your death with the unwanted help of an assassin and two Russian hockey players is simple. 
Coming back from the dead...now that's a different story. 
This story.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so reading part one and two would probably make this jumbled mess seem a bit more coherent.
> 
>   
>  **“You raze the old to raise the new.”**   
>  _― Justina Chen, North of Beautiful_   
> 

**|June, 2019|**

It happens.

 

The clock ticks down to zero, buzzer humming, the sound of it is swallowed by the swell of noise that rises from behind the glass and rattles the very foundation of the Consol. Gloves go airborne, flung toward the rafters as bodies crashed together, congealing in a tangle of limbs and pads in front of the crease. A Stanley Cup win, on home ice.

 

Beau watched his team, sweat cool on the back of his neck as he panted, catching his breath near center ice. All around him Philly was hovering. Some were bent double after fighting through that second OT, others leaning on their sticks, coming to terms with the odd sense of emptiness that accompanies defeat.

 

“Good game, kid.”

 

Through a haze of wiry ginger hair, Claude Giroux’s lips were moving.

 

Beau needed a minute to parse out those three words, to sort out the meaning of the other man’s extended hand.

 

“It was.” Beau agreed slowly, eventually reaching out and giving Claude’s hand a firm shake. If he was annoyed by the delay in response it didn’t show. Claude’s eyes never skittered away, the shadows set deep beneath them mirrored in his team and Beau’s.

 

Playing in the Consol was hard on them all. Five and half years ago they’d stepped onto the same ice, in a game cut short by bullets and blood.  The memory was still enough to snatch the breath right out of their lungs, leaving them gasping and panicked at the sound of a backfiring car or a glimpse of sunny yellow crocs.

 

“I’m sorry it’s not Sid’s hand your shaking.”

 

Claude let out a gusty sigh, leaning on his stick and looking out over the ice and the men on it. “I am too, we all are,” he said. “But you wear the C well, you’ve led them this far. He’d have been proud.”

 

Beau rubbed his arm where, beneath the sleeve of his jersey, was a slightly faded band of black ink. “I hope so, I really do.” Shaking Claude’s hand once more, he pushed his aching legs toward the crush of teammates and coaches amassed in the crease. For a few moments he managed to forget the throbbing pain in his wrists and the dull ache in his chest as the euphoria radiating from his team made his skates feel a little lighter.

 

There were guys now who’d never been on the same ice as Sid.

 

Matt Murray, their time tested young goalie who’d put Flower out of the job sooner rather than later. Connor Sheary who came to them as a standout rookie nearly two years after Sid had died and now had three seasons under his belt. Tom Kühnhackl who’s progress and skill had been on an upward incline since he’d permanently joined the roster in 2016.

 

 

Old timers who’d never left, like Flower whose fourth daughter was on the way, with seemingly no hope for a son. Kuni who’d be the Jagr of their years. Tanger now married and much to Flower’s chagrin, gifted with a baby boy.  And Geno who’d taken a season off, mourning in the wilds of Russia, before he’d returned with a tight-lipped smile and dark, empty eyes.

 

 

Duper was now head of the recruitment team, Billy Guerin an assistant manager, and Mario ever at the helm. The three men who’d been holding the team together with duct tape and chewing gum for years, standing in their suits and shaking hands with wide grins and easy praise.

 

 

It’d been a long and hard road back from the two year slump they’d slipped into after Sidney’s death, finishing at the bottom of the league for two consecutive years and with historically abysmal records. Somehow though, somehow _,_ they’d pulled it together to hoist the Cup once more.

 

 

Beau accepted the back slaps and hugs as he pushed his way along to congratulate Flower. It’d been a tough year for him and they weren’t getting any easier from an on-ice perspective. But tonight, the net might as well have been the size of a postage stamp, he’d have held Philly to a shutout if Giroux hadn’t scored off a lucky bounce. It’d been a sight to see.

 

When he finally had Flower in sight, the goalie in question sweating bullets and wrapped in one of Duper’s patent pending bear huggers, Beau put a bit more oomph into his legs as he skated towards him. The crowd roared when they noticed his approach, banging the glass and shouting their congratulations.

 

Beau flashed a smile at them, eyes flitting over the sea of people who’d filled the stands during the good times and the bad, waiting for this day.

 

Eyes the color of hazel and honey, dark curls mashed into a ball cap, and a thick beard grown from ear to ear—the sight made Beau do a double take. His initial task forgotten, he made for the door in the boards, trying to keep sight of that tan ballcap and those painfully familiar eyes.

 

He shoved through fans as he yanked skate guards on and made his way up the stands. Hands clawed at his jersey, yanking and pulling, anchoring him in place as the cap bobbed away into the crowd. Still, Beau fought it. Struggling step for step until finally breaking free into the concourse.

 

There were streams of people left and right, through them all Beau saw those eyes for just a flicker of a moment and his heart seized in his chest.

 

“Sidney!”

 

His call echoed, a harbinger of silence as everyone in earshot turned to stare at him. Amid them the hazel faded, the cap lost. Beau stood there, drenched in sweat, shivering, and disconcertingly weak in the knees.

 

“Sidney?” He went up on the tip of his skates, desperately scanning faces.

 

Right after Sidney died, he’d seen him everywhere. During those first few months of their return season, there wasn’t an airport or store he walked through without catching a glimpse of his Captain’s ghost. Months of counseling and years of slow and unsteady healing had quelled the visions. Or so he’d thought.

 

“Beau.” A hand came down on his shoulder and Beau jerked around to find Duper behind him. The crow’s feet etched at the corners of his eyes deepened, his lips pressed into a tight line of equal parts concern and exhaustion.

 

Beau swallowed thickly, looking from Duper to the mystified crowd. “I thought…his eyes, I swear I saw his eyes.”

 

Duper’s grip on his shoulder tightened. “Come on, Kid. There’s a Cup waiting for a captain,” he said, steering Beau back down toward the rink.

 

Beau went without a fight, any defiance he had left was gone in a breeze of spiced cologne and vanishing hazel eyes.

 

* * *

 

 

Sidney walked briskly across the parking lot, his head angled low as he trudged by pockets of fans. He yanked open the door of an old Ford pickup and slid into the passenger’s seat, flailing his hand toward the exit. “Go, we need to go,” he said, his voice cracking as he pawed at the stray tears welling up in his eyes.

 

Ken, mercifully, said nothing. He put the truck in gear and pulled out carefully into the crowded road. Pittsburgh slowly coming alive to carry her champions into the night.  They drove in silence until the skyline was barely more than a twinkling glare in the rearview mirror, fading into the stars.

 

“We never should have done this,” Sidney said, yanking the cap off and raking his fingers through an unruly mop of curls. “Even if your contact in Russia pans out, it’s been five years, they’ve moved on— _healed._ ” He shook his head, looking across the center console to Ken.

 

“Five years of training and building connections so that we could put an end to this hiding, so that you could go home.” Ken glanced over, his grip tight around the steering wheel. “Sasha and Dima didn’t risk their lives smuggling you out of the clutches of an assassin so that you could live as a regret plagued hermit in the wilds of Ronan Montana. They did it to give Geno and you—and everyone like you— had a fighting chance against that festering sinkhole of propaganda and oppression.”

 

“What if I’m too late, what if he doesn’t love me anymore?” Sidney asked, slouching down against the worn seat upholstery, staring out into the thickening darkness of the night.  

 

“Oh yeah Sid, the guy with the angel winged eighty-seven printed on every piece of his gear doesn’t love you anymore,” Ken scoffed and shook his head. “Five years or fifty, he’d love you the same.”

 

“I hope so,” Sid pulled the cap back on, pulling it down over his eyes to hide the hot tears welled up behind them. “I really do.”

**Author's Note:**

> This series sat unfinished for a long time. A very long time.  
> To be honest I always knew how it was meant to end, but putting it down in words got harder and harder to do.  
> Still there are those of you that stuck around hoping that one day I'd fill you in and bring closure to this mess.  
> Well here it is, in three (possibly four parts), I'm going to attempt to do just that.  
> So thank you for your patience, happy holidays!


End file.
